World's Only Consulting Psychic (Uni LockPsych Crossover)
by Thelema Star
Summary: Sherlock Holmes knows who killed Carl Powers. Unfortunately for him, the police refuse to listen to a college student for help on a case they already consider to be solved; that is, until his dorm mate and only/best friend, John Watson, suggests that he pretends to have contact with the unknown. Idea credit to Tumblr user Awesomemaple!
1. Chapter 1

Another day had been spent with the police ignoring Sherlock, as they so very often did. They saw him as nothing more than a pesky wanna-be, and even when he offered logical advice, Sherlock was brushed off like an annoying fly.

He had utterly seethed while riding a cab back to the university's dorms, well aware it was a certain inspector's know-it-all son that had particularly fueled the entire police force's discontent with Sherlock wanting to help them solve the death of a fellow student. Even when Sherlock made logical arguments in the case, Inspector Anderson's son always passed Sherlock off as a raving lunatic.

Oh, how he had stormed up the stairs to his room, his trench coat whirling around him in a dramatic black blur, flapping in the breeze, giving him a theatrical air of malice. He flung open the door, eyes hardened into steel chips.

"I hate this entire place!" he shouted to no one in particular, though his dormmate was the only one there. "I hate this city! I hate this country! I'm moving to France tomorrow, I swear it, I am! The police refuse to investigate further! I don't think they even preformed an autopsy on him!"

John barely looked up from his laptop at Sherlock's anger. The death of Carl Powers had shaken up the entire campus, and Sherlock swore he knew it was a murder, and refused to accept the decision made by the law. "Calm down, get yourself some coffee, and just let it go. You weren't there, you can't prove it, and the case is closed. Get over it," John muttered, making his friend at least drop the volume of his ranting. "There's nothing you can do."

"Carl Power didn't drown or have some freak accident. I know he didn't. If only I had been there, if only I was old enough for them to listen to me..." Sherlock rambled on, pretending he hadn't heard John at all. "Why were there no cameras next to the pool? I'd have to go back in time to prove it-"

"Maybe you should be a psychic then," John practically shouted, just trying to get Sherlock to shut up. He didn't mean it, and thought Sherlock wouldn't take it seriously, as much as the dectective-to-be frowned upon such things and didn't believe in them.

When the taller man's blue eyes lit up with the spirit of a maniac, John regretted telling him of that silly idea. "Sherlock," he started, a worried expression covering the former annoyed one. "You wouldn't really do this, right? Right?"

"If they won't listen to me, then I just might! They'll never know it! My deducing skills are rivaled by none; they'll think I know everything about them at a glance. Which, in fact, I would, actually. But they won't know_ how, _other than my 'magical' powers!"

The medical student felt a quiet groan escape his lips at his own stupidity as he watched Sherlock spin around and practically dance to the kitchen for coffee. He slowly closed his laptop and hung his head. When his doormate returned, John did nothing to resist his Dell being whisked away and listened as Sherlock quickly typed up his master plan.

Note: I got this idea from Tumblr user Awesomemaple. She wanted someone to write this story, and I thought it seemed like it would be fun. Go check out her blog! 


	2. Chapter 2

John raced after Sherlock, easily keeping up despite Sherlock having longer legs, as they ran down the bumpy backstreets of London. The medical student would never know what compeled Sherlock to run when they could get a cab, and often wondered why he didn't just meet him at wherever they were going. It might have been the traffic, but John always assumed it was for dramatic effect.

"Where are we going?" he asked desperately, despite the feeling his dorm mate wouldn't answer, as usual. His fears were confirmed when Sherlock merely grunted, casting John a glance as he continued with the pace that seemed almost a jog to him.

John sighed; Sherlock was more stubborn than a hundred year old oak tree trying to be ripped down. It occured to him that he didn't know his friend's exact age, an that Sherlock might be older than the stars. He figured he'd better ask later, for fear of living with some kind of immortal freakish creep.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and held out an arm for John to run into, his way of telling the blond to stop. Another thing John didn't know was how, when he ran into such a thin, delicate, arm at full speed, his muscular build easily able to overpower Sherlock, the arm didn't move an inch. It stopped him as fast as falling in a pit without ever wavering.

Maybe he was living with an alien of some sort. That would explain most of the black haired man's habits and behavior quite easily, actually. John's eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's, who was looking down on John like he knew exactly what John was thinking and wasn't thrilled with it.

Sherlock turned and walked up the cracked stairs to a litte house, probably rented, with a thin brown door and an orange, glowing door bell. He tapped the button, and John could hear the ringing from inside the house from where he stood next to the street. A young man of only about eighteen opened the door, and his eyes lit up.

He had sad, deep set green eyes and mud brown hair that was styled into many little spikes. When he spoke, it was with intense sorrow and a little bit of hope. "They wrote it off as a suicide," he whispered, confusing John instantly.

"We know better," Sherlock replied solemly, taking John by his arm and pulling him inside the unorganized, cramped place. The only place to sit was on the couch, and on the table in front of it were pictures of a girl about the same age as the young man who brought them in.

John slowly came to the realization that it was his girlfriend, perhaps wife, as he listened to Sherlock talk with him. Friends were discussed, as well as family and living conditions. John couldn't think of anyone with a motive instantly, except he knew the wheels in his dorm mate's head were turning.

Sherlock suddenly froze and put his hands to his head. He stood up and walked around, eyes closed, stumbling. One hand moved in front of him warily. "She said the one who had forgotten her... Quick, was there anyone who wasn't at the funeral?"

The boy's eyes widened as he searched his memory as fast as he could. "Uh, there was only Tracy, from what I remember, but she said she had a doctor's appointment-"

"The police will find that to be false. And the day Jill was found dead, where was this Tracy?" Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at their client menacingly.

"She said she was out of town-"

"And she flirted with you often before then, correct? Perhaps she was jealous?"

"Tracy did not kill her!" the green eyed Brit shouted, jumping up, turning reddish in the face. "Tracy was her best friend and-"

"You had an affair with her. Out of complete shame, she stayed home from the funeral and hid from the world, not sure she could bear to see Jill's body know that she had helped you devise the plan to put it there. Yes, she's telling me this now, and believe me, she's angry." Sherlock grabbed his head and pulled at his own hair, rocking back and forth. "So very, very angry.

"With all rights to be, I'd say! Considering that you shot her, then ran her hand across the gun and placed it in her own hands, not worrying about fingerprints because you were wearing gloves."

John looked around, wondering where Sherlock had gotten the gloves from, then spying a pair with just a tiny drop of blood on them in the trash can next to the couch. They were white and woolen, not the plastic the police would use, and seemed feminine and too small for the murderer; they were probably Tracy's.

"You had a solid alibi for that night, because you were with Tracy, calming her down and telling her it was alright, that the crime would go off without a hitch; you two went to the theatre so you could say you were alone and had the part of the ticket to prove it. And it would have, if you didn't now want to get her father locked up for murder, as he's getting suspicous of you."

The young man fell back into his seat and stared at Sherlock, then started crying. "How?" he whispered. "How did you know?"

"John, phone the police and tell them we need them here. I'll fill them in when they arrive." Sherlock turned back to the murderer with a smile. "Because I'm psychic, that's how."


	3. Chapter 3

The moment the students got back to their dorm, John turned to Sherlock, obviously impressed. "How?" he whispered. "How did you do that?"

Sherlock started to answer the confusd medical student's question with a sly grin. "It was fairly obvious," he boasted, practically dancing into the kitchen. "He emphasized that everyone in the family loved her _so much, _but then his tone changed-as in, got shaky, a sign of nerves-when he went back on that to say that her father was never supportive. He was also so kind to admit that her father was never fond of him.

"Then, of course, the glove. It was too small for his hand, and there was a red hair on it. Sam and Jill both had dark hair, not the red. I also assumed Tracy had helped him, considering he spoke of her _very _fondly, and hinted a good bit at an affair. He may have been an actor in high school, but that wasn't quite enough to pull off his greatest act, now was it?"

John shook his head, amazed at Sherlock's abilities. "Have you always been able to do that?"

"As long as I remember, yes. Ask Mycroft, he'd probably tell you." A few seconds ticked by on John's watched before both started laughing. "If you can find him anymore, that is."

The shorter young man grinned and shrugged before the smile faded from his face as he wondered if Sherlock actually cared that he hadn't seen his brother in a year or two, because of Mycroft's job. He felt guilty for laughing, but then again, he couldn't quite picture Sherlock mourning over the loss of anyone for more than a few minutes or however long it took him to find something he thought was more interesting to take his mind off of it.

"I want some food," Sherlock muttered, glancing at his own watch to check the time. "Where do you want lunch? On me today."

Feeling his jaw drop in surprise, John couldn't think of a single thing to say. He ran a hand across his eyes and blinked a few times, just to be sure he was awake and not hallucinating. Sherlock stared at him with a completely serious face. "I guess it doesn't matter, does it?" he finally managed to work out. "Whatever you'd want."

"Hmph. I try to do something that Molly calls _nice _for once, and you can't even have the decency to pick what you want. Not even a pub? No idea?" Before John could answer that yes, a pub would be nice, Sherlock shrugged and waltzed away from the still-on coffee maker. John ran over and turned it off before racing after Sherlock, who was already drifting down the hallway.

Sherlock hailed a taxi outside and had them delivered to a small restraunt that John usually found himself at with his dorm mate. It was a popular place for college students, as the food was cheap and wasn't all terrible, as long as fish was avoided entirely.

The moment they were seated, Sherlock groaned and held his hands over his face. Before John could ask why, a familiar voice sounded directly in his ear. "Well, well, well, the queers are back! How are you, Johnny?"

"I'm. Straight," John forced out through gritted teeth, sliding away from Anderson, who apparently took it as an invitation to sit down beside him. "Get lost."

"Awww, look who's protective of his wittle cwushy-wushy!" the forensic-to-be cooed.

"Can't you ever leave us alone?" Sherlock muttered, not moving his hands.

"Are you blushing, dude?" he laughed, poking Sherlock's arms. "Come on, just tell John that you're-"

Sherlock flung his hands onto the table and gave an animal-like growl, a murderous look in his eyes. His face was as pale as ever, to Anderson's disappointment. "Why don't you tell your girlfriend that you're having an affair instead?"

Anderson's eyes shot wide open, and all blood seemed to drain from his cheeks. He stood up and stiffly walked away, to the other side of the building. "I told you he's a psycho!" he laughed to his group of friends. "Did you hear him growl?" More laughter followed as his lover imitated the sound, making hr best friend-Anderson's girlfriend-spit her drink out.

Sighing, Sherlock slowly pushed his menu towards John. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Are you just going to let Anderson get to you?" John asked, shocked.

A sad look quickly plastered Sherlock's face, making John uncomfortable, as he'd never seen that on his friend before. "This has been going on for years now, John. And yes. Yes I am."

"But you need to eat, Sherlock."

The monotone voice very rarely used at that time suddenly appeared. "Heh. Eating. Eating is boring."

John ordered his food shortly afterwards, and before taking a bite offered Sherlock a share. After having his dorm mate decline, John stuck his fork into the pasta. "Are you gay?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"No!" Sherlock hissed, a little to quickly in John's opinion.

"I was just asking," he squeaked, a little afraid of Sherlock's anger.

"I know."

"It's okay if you are. It won't change anything between us."

"I _know,_ John! Just shut up and eat your damned food so we can get out of here! We have work to do!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait up a second!" Molly Hooper shouted as Sherlock practically dragged John out of the restraunt and onto the street.

"Pretend you don't hear her! Go!" the black-haired man hissed to John, picking up the speed, briskly trying to escape from the girl. Molly also went to their college, and though she often helped Sherlock with becoming more 'socially acceptable,' the detective-to-be despised the popular idea of her having a crush on him.

"Sherlock Holmes!" came yet another insistant call, much louder this time, making Sherlock growl and force a smile, turning around to see the red-headed girl trotting up to him.

"Hello, Molly," he chirped. John thought it was obvious when Sherlock was faking happiness, as he actually acted like a normal person would when seeing a friend. "What can I help you with today?"

"I heard about the whole psychic thing. Why didn't you ever tell me?" she demanded. "Or are you lying?"

"I am helping people by solving cases the Yard refuses to re-open without me. I am also establishing my name. Yes, I am lying, but no one is getting hurt except criminals." He rocked back onto his heels, casting John a helpless glance.

"Don't act like helping people is important to you. You just want the Yard to give you some recognition!" she spat, eyes like flint as she glared at him. "That's not right, Sherlock."

"I do want to help people, I just don't want to deal with them for extended amounts of time. Hence I help the dead ones. You should understand how that feels." His forced smile broke into an overly-polite grin, and John cracked a smirk of amusement at Sherlock's situation.

Molly sighed, lowering her head. "She-rlo-ck," she muttered, drawing out his name.

"Mo-ll-y," he replied, making her smile as she didn't realize he was really mocking her.

John cast the girl a sad gaze; she was probably never going to understand that Sherlock wasn't interested in relationships, and she should consider herself lucky to get to talk to such a great man. As Molly quickly said her goodbyes, and darted off-which was just like her-John thought about how one day the entire world would know of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

"She's a nice girl, you know," John told Sherlock as they continued on their way.

"I know she's a nice girl. I'm just not interested at the moment. I'm more concerned with us at the moment." He flicked a michevious smirk towards John, who almost tripped and fell.

"Us?" echoed his dorm mate. "What us?" His eyes stretched wide as he stared at Sherlock, mouth agape.

"Well, we're dorm mates and friends and trying to make it in this big scary world and I'm more concerned about us not getting killed out there by some psychopath and managing to pay bills and trivial other things like that than a relationship with a girl who frankly deserves better."

"Deserve better?" John repeated, grinning and shaking his head. "You're a genius, Sherlock; a genius and a good man at heart. You have a sense of humor-a morbid one, but still-and you aren't exactly what most young ladies would call ugly. Anyone would be lucky to have you!"

Giving his dorm mate a look, Sherlock slowly smiled, then turned to the street, away from John, who realized that he may have just given his friend an absolutely horrid idea of who anyone really was as the taller man hailed them a taxi to their next case.

* * *

Note: I am so sorry! My Wi-Fi went out for weeks. The only reason my Tumblr was active during that-if anyone noticed or whatever-was because of my phone. Anyway, shortly after, my writer's block dropped in, so I'm afraid I only have this one chapter for you guys. I really am sorry for this. I'll try to write another chapter soon!


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